The Value of Sleep
by He will knock four times
Summary: He finds you when your sleeping... and when the daylight fades... John swears to never tell anyone because not all his dreams were about the war, and he has a good reason. With Sherlock though, he knows he never has lock his door because he is safe.
1. Chapter 1

**_Warning_** : This is an idea I had for a pre-slash fic. It's mostly just a one-shot but it could be _**considered triggering**_ for some people. It doesn't actually show you the scene in which it happened but it has hints of **_non-consensual_**. It mentions some situations about **_war_** and my ideas about John that may be upsetting. There are some thoughts of _**suicide**_ involved. If this is too much for you I'd advise you to find something else to read.

I wondered about what would happen to the dynamic with John and Sherlock if I threw a wrench in John's character. I decided it might change some of John's behavior but overall not much. We see in the regular study in pink that John seems to trust Sherlock nearly right away. Mycroft pisses him off and John immediately goes to Baker Street instead of ignoring him. I can't say I've ever been sexually assaulted, or have been through war, but I hope I am representing the feelings right. I never want to trivialize someone's experiences of those things.

I think I like stories where John has something happen to him. Not because I like John to suffer or anything but because I like when Sherlock gets protective in the show. It makes for a wonderful friendship dynamic. We see Sherlock get protective of Mrs. Hudson and super angry at the CIA agent in scandal of Belgrave and it was pretty great. So if I decide to continue this I think I'll have Sherlock slowly figure it out and see what happens.

Enjoy, and please tell me what I could do better to make the story better. Etc.

Xxxxxxxx

John Hamish Watson used to be bisexual.

He enjoyed his friendships in the army and the occasional person that happens to turn his head. Some were quick flings in the area he was stationed and others he formed monogamous and meaningful relationships with. Regardless of gender that regrettably ended with whatever his assignments were at the time.

John used to be bisexual...

And then while he was stationed in a remote base in the Middle East during the beginning of his second tour, his commanding officer begins entering his private tent at night. For five months John suffers night terrors, a permanent sense of being tainted, body twinges, and lives in fear for the next time it happens. He knows he can never tell anyone. Who would believe him? If he tries, he knows his life is forfeit and anyways, after those first three weeks, he begins to feel inferior. He feels tainted in a way that no amount of scrubbing, scratching and showering ever seems to wash out. No one would believe him, and why would they believe him when he is so obviously dirty and disgusting? He begins to feel a pervading terror that someone will notice that there is something wrong with him.

It's a miracle to John when Major Reeds is transferred to another base far, far away where John knows he will never have to see the man again.

Immediately he knows it will stop but after that he never feels quite safe again. He remains skeptical of his other comrades, wondering if one of them will be the same as Reeds, and feels exhausted from constantly being on guard. He feels uneasy whenever he knows someone is behind him and he has to force himself not to jump whenever someone walks up behind him unnoticed. He really only ever relaxes around a rare few people he trusts. A knot that had formed inside of him since it first happened remains clenched and he never really sleeps soundly except for a few times because how could he when his dreams remain punctuated with the sickly feeling of that man always on his skin? His dreams already have the horror of senseless death from the battlefield and now he has the memories of being forced to the floor of his tent countless times to add to his nightmares.

Even after Major Reeds is transferred to another regiment and another station, John vows to never tell anyone. He knows it's dangerous for him if people don't believe him. They would think he was making it up and out on the battlefield your comrades are your lifeline. The unsaid rule of being a soldier was 'thou shalt not be a soldier alone' because a soldier with no back up is a dead one. It's no that John thinks anyone from his regiment would kill him. All it would take was for someone with lingering resentments at his back, to hesitate to defend him and he's dead.

And what if someone _did_ believe him? People would know. They would see the taint that wrapped around him like a noxious cloud, never quite leaving him and only ever always hanging around him. And he feels terrified, because who would want to be friends with someone so wrong? So _unclean_? Or what if someone believed him and decided the army wasn't for him anymore? That he was too damaged to stay? What if he got discharged? He isn't certain he can do that. He doesn't know if he could hack it outside of the army. This has been his whole life since a month after graduating medical school. He doesn't know how to be a civilian. The idea itself is terrifying. Every time they force him to take a leave back home, John spends the time in an army flat waiting to go back. The rigid structure and order, the bursts of adrenalin, the few friends he implicitly trusts, the lives he saves both on the operating table and out on the field. He needs it. He doesn't know anything else and what the hell would he do if he got kicked out and couldn't go back?

John used to be bisexual. _Used_ to be. He considers himself completely cured of it. He uses the word 'cured' because the idea of ever letting another man touch him in such a way, or even at all, makes him violently ill. He considers it exactly once during his second tour and two times during his third tour. The result was the same each time and no amount of time past seems to lessen the effects. Whenever he considers it, his stomach immediately rejects whatever it has inside even if he hasn't eaten or drunk anything. He's left dry heaving and shivering in fear, gasping for breath and struggling to even take a breath, and some distant part of him understands that he now has panic attacks at the mere idea of sex with another man. The threat of casual contact has him tensing, pats on the back from another man are too much to contemplate. So sex? The feelings of revulsion at even considering it, combined with a sense of crippling shame put that idea six feet under and he never considers it again after that third time. He's terrified to even be naked around the others which is a real problem as there isn't any room for modesty in the tight machine that is the Royal Army Medical Corps, much less the British Royal Forces.

He decides to himself that ' _no, never again_ ' would he ever be with a man. He is straight now. He focuses on having relationships with women and he even feels good having sex with them. He's always loved every aspect of being with women before and it hasn't changed now. He truly loved treating them like a princess. He actually likes hearing them talk. His mother had raised him to open doors for women and he liked doing that as well. He likes the chase. Another bonus was that he never felt threatened in the slightest in a sexual situation with a woman. He hates the nickname 'Three Continents Watson' because it doesn't feel true. He isn't some Casanova, lady killer. He doesn't have one night stands with them and then move on to the next. He just loves women and the feeling he gets when he makes them feel special.

He'd have a long term girlfriend too except it's just that for some reason his relationships are harder to maintain than before. He can't see why as he behaves as the perfect boyfriend. It's not like he feels threatened by them or ashamed to be touched by them, sex isn't a problem either. The women he's with though complain that he's too closed off. That he keeps a piece of himself in reserve. John wonders if it isn't the gender of the person that he's with, just that he's been damaged too badly to ever truly trust himself with someone like that even in a consensual relationship. He's determined though to never expose himself to another man like that ever again because the idea of it is like poison sliding across his body.

The only times he seems to be able to stand touching another man anymore is when he is being a doctor. Stitching up others, giving them exams, and even seeing them naked seem to do nothing to John when John has his white coat or surgical scrubs on. He feels no shame or sense of taint while in surgery, carving away death and stitching out injury. He doesn't experience that sense of paranoia that people could look at him and just know that he was unclean, despite showering very regularly, while setting a broken arm. John realizes that it's the only time he feels truly safe around other men because he loves healing people and making them better. And part of him admits that it's also because he knows that they are too injured and bedridden to hurt him. It's almost a relief to John to still be able to do this because Reeds took everything else from John in those five months like his piece of mind and sense of safety and he doesn't know what he would have done with himself if this had been taken too.

Which is why it was so much worse than anything John could have imagined when two-thirds into his third tour, he gets shot and looses **everything else**.

Aside from that moment when he's convinced he will die, John is almost curiously removed from it all. ' _Please God! Let me live_ '. Yet when he does live, when he does survive the bullet by two centimeters, he almost wishes he hadn't. Waking up in a hospital in England is equally disorienting and horrible when he is given the news. Muscular nerve damage to his radial nerve on his left shoulder had ruined the fine motor control of his left hand. He can never hold a scalpel steady again. He would later find that he couldn't even raise his left arm above his head. He would forever have a limited range of motion that hindered his left overhead extension. Even worse is how badly the infection and fever destroyed his health and he suffered two seizures. It isn't just because his health is ruined, it's because the army immediately does a medical discharge of anyone who has a seizure. He sits quietly in that hospital knowing that his career with the army was over and that his shaking hand indicates that the only other joy John could have was gone too. Suddenly, John realizes that this time around, **he truly has nothing at all**.

That sense of shame deepens but this time extends to people not only seeing his body and the taint of unclean but to people just plain seeing him. He is truly ruined and he hates it and everyone, including himself. The sight of the ugly red scar that looks like some sort of topographical map of London after a meteor left a crater in the center makes the nurses give him looks of pity and he hates them in return even if he never says it. He feels equally about the other surgeons who give him the repeated prognosis of 'some returned motor function' because they are employing the same verbal tricks John had used on a regular basis to make his own patients feel hopeful and better. He knows those tricks. He knows what a surgeon can and can't promise and how to evade the harder questions with a optimistic 'we'll see' like a smiley face bandaid will make it all better. Harry visits him in the hospital just the once and awkwardly tries to talk to him but is reduced to tears. John learns that Clara had left her and receives an old phone he barely has the muscular control to hold. Harry doesn't come visit again.

All around him were people who either pitied him or lied to him, all while seeing him at his lowest. It's even worse because the hospital offers no safety to him now. It had been his last refuge while he wore his white coat and now it was gone. Now, instead of being a doctor surrounded by people too injured to hurt him, he is a patient too injured to defend himself if someone is like Reeds and decides they don't mind that he is dirty and now ruined. It's all he can do not to loose control and not start screaming in fear. He's a doctor and he knows how to detach himself to attend to his patients. Professional detachment seems to extend here as well. The nurses and staff assume that his bad dreams are the result of PTSD. That the way he tenses when most of his doctors leans over and pulls the blanket down to check his injuries is a part of that diagnosis. That's it's just the result of twelve years spent looking back over his shoulder for threats taking its toll.

He manages to weather through it all by disassociating himself from the situation and only speaking when spoken too. Even then it doesn't work out all of the time. There are male nurses in the hospital and he has two panic attacks during his recovery when he looses his composure because they were assigned the task of giving him a sponge bath. Finally, after seven weeks he is discharged and released from the hospital with a cane because for some reason he has started limping too.

 _And why not? Of course his leg would be_. It's with some dark glimmer of humor that John thinks that. He was already ruined in every other way. Why not have his leg be defective for no fucking reason too? _Psychosomatic_ they said. It was all in his head. For something that was all in his head, it hurt pretty damn badly whenever he tried putting full weight on it. And that was it. Seven weeks in their care and they shoo him out the door with a cane, a therapists phone number and no where to go. He finds the army bedsits are easily affordable even if they are just about the most fucking depressing stack of buildings he has ever laid eyes on.

It's dark and dingy, and the other residents aren't any better because they are just like him. Shell shocked to be here and unable to imagine never going back, but tormented by the memories and stuck here all the same. Most of them walk around in a haze John is familiar with because he experiences it himself and it occurs to him he's a ghost. Dead man walking. Because he certainly isn't living but he's not dead and it's like he's haunting his own life. He even hates the staff who manage the bedsits. They come along doing rounds regularly ' _to visit_ ' they said, but John was sure it was just them checking to see that he and his neighbors haven't offed themselves yet. They are always so cheerful that John can't believe it's genuine either. They were being paid to do this job. They couldn't really want to see all of these war veterans who often weren't talking to the people in front of them but often were to people not even there. No one smiled that much. Manic and eternal megawatt grins seem to be part of the their standard uniform along with unsolicited advice about how if he just opened the curtains he'd be that much happier, or if he got a job somewhere he'd be that much better.

Even the location of it isn't any better. It's tucked so far away from the rest of society and people that there's no grocery store. He has to walk a mile with a limp on a gravel path to get to the tube station to get any food or tea and then walk a mile back to return home with it. Its the stupidest location John had ever seen considering there were some of his neighbors who couldn't walk at all. They were missing legs or arms and couldn't make the journey. It's far away from civilization as if they were too abominable, too uncomfortable a truth, to lay eyes on so the executive decision was to tuck them out of sight like sweeping dirt under the carpet. The army prefer people to see joining and serving as a noble calling. Who'd want to join if the leftovers of war were visible and the truth that there was nothing noble left in this collection of misfits who screamed at night from dreams too terrible to speak to their therapists about?

John knows he should do something. He should start looking for work. Perhaps find somewhere else to live that doesn't make him feel like blowing his brains out, with the illegal handgun he obtained as soon as he could after being discharged. Maybe he could try opening up to Ella, his therapist. Maybe try forming a closer relationship with Harry. She was his only family left after all. John does nothing though. It's not that he doesn't want to. It's that he can't even work up the motivation or energy to try something new. He wakes at six, showers, dresses, makes tea, eats when he manages to work up the appetite, and sits for hours. Then he goes to bed around nine. Rinse, wash, repeat. The only variation to his schedule is the appointments with Ella that happen every Thursday.

It's not a matter of feeling depressed as Ella thinks. John privately disagrees. He doesn't feel depressed. He feels empty. Fear, anger, shame, calm. These seem to be his four primary states of being lately. When he isn't ashamed or angry or fearful, he is blank. He just sits. He isn't even suicidal. Not properly anyways. It's not a matter of being afraid to die. If that were true he'd have done himself in ages ago. It's the sense of ennui that somehow extends even into suicide. He hasn't killed himself yet, not out of a sense of fear, but because he can't even work up the motivation to kill himself. _Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after that. Hardly matters either way_.

' _Nothing ever happens to me_ ' he'd told Ella. So when he meets Sherlock Holmes it's like everything he ever needed to start living again happening at once.

Meeting Mike Stanford in that park was pure chance. Mike doesn't even look at him pity like others do when John tells him about getting shot. Even better, he doesn't try to pry for the gritty details of the battlefield like some people try to do. Instead he talks about the good old days at Bart's and even makes an effort to get John laughing. John feels a glimmer of warmth and trust for the other man that he rarely feels with anyone. He still makes sure to sit a reasonable distance away though because it's been some years since he's seen Mike and Mike is still a man. He isn't entirely sold on the idea of a flat mate. Sharing housing and a bathroom with a man? How would that work? Well perhaps it wouldn't completely terrible. There were some flat mates that barley saw each other in the day and John could get some good strong locks for his bedroom door. Perhaps it would get him out of the bedsits he was in now. It seemed a good idea and if it turned out not to be, John could always just move. At the very least he could go with Stamford to meet this man.

What happens next means the world to John. Sherlock always looks directly at John in the eye. Even Mike couldn't manage that. His explanations of how he notices things no one else does amaze John and something really is happening here. Finally something in his stilted and stagnant world, a wheel starts turning. Even better, there's something about Sherlock that John feels safe around. It's mystifying but John doesn't complain. Sherlock must either not appreciate touch or he observed that John didn't. Either way, John doesn't feel like he needs to be on guard. Sherlock doesn't give him the feeling that if he turns his back, his consent will be taken from him. There's no terror he feels at the idea of living in close quarters with Sherlock Holmes. It's mystifying as John has been around dozens of men that he's wary to trust and even some of them that he trusted during his first tour that terrified him during his second.

Something about Sherlock, however, causes John to trust him nearly right away. Not immediately, because even he isn't sure about the man right away. ' _Trust issues_ ' and all that, but there's just something so fascinating about him that John cant help but want to get closer and see more, understand all the thoughts occurring in that head. Even better, after trying subtly fishing in order to understand if he was in danger but really just sounding awkward, John learned that Sherlock considered himself married to his work. This could be better than anything. This could _work_. Sherlock seems largely removed from sex and if he wasn't asexual as John assumed, then at the very least he was celibate and disinterested. John could have the adrenalin, the close friendship of someone who understood him and could even feel safe when he went to sleep at night. He might not even need the locks on his door.

The smile on Sherlocks face when John realized he'd forgotten his cane and realized that Sherlock had cured him when no one else could... John decided then that if he couldn't to trust Sherlock, he didn't know who he could. He feels as though he is a comrade in a war of Sherlocks choosing. _He can do that_ , he decides. He already knew he made a terrible civilian and after Sherlock healed his leg and made his world turn again, John decides he would follow Sherlock anywhere. On some level he understands the man and that even if he doesn't fully understand Sherlock, he respects what he does see.

And Sherlock seems to see him and respect it in kind. John values Sherlocks good opinion of him. He decides to never tell Sherlock and then he never has to face the day that Sherlock views him as unclean or tainted because then Sherlock would _leave_ and John can't have that. John can't stand the idea because that confrontation after shooting murderous Hope was a silent conversation. Sherlock seemed to look at him, see his flaws, and respect him anyways. The idea and resulting feelings is more heady and wonderful than John had experienced in a long time. Suddenly John's appetite returns to him and Sherlock asking if he wanted dinner was the greatest thing ever. And John knows that he should feel bad about killing a man but he couldn't regret protecting Sherlock.

For the first time, in a long time, John goes to bed feeling safe, he has no nightmares, and sleeps soundly.


	2. Chapter 2

John isn't quite sure when it starts.

He admires Sherlock and respects him. He likes that he feels safe and that at night he hardly ever feels like he needs to lock his door. He does sometimes, when the nightmares are too much, and he feels like Reeds will burst through that door. So he locks his door and huddles under the blanket until morning where tea and sunlight will make everything better. Most nights though, he knows he's safe with Sherlock and so he leaves his door unlocked. He still has nightmares but they are less in frequency now. Perhaps it had something to do with Sherlock playing the violin when he has a bad dream.

He'll come downstairs feeling miserable and shuffle into the kitchen and Sherlock would walk over to his case and start playing a lullaby. Amazingly, John would be able to sleep again afterwards. He's never been able to do so after a night terror before. Just go back to sleep. He used to just sit up until he was exhausted and passed out or his day started. But Sherlock and his violin were a balm to John and the knowledge that this was Sherlocks way of comforting him was just as good as the violin playing. It made him feel warm and affectionate towards the lazy clot. He'd feel safe enough to sleep again with knowing Sherlock and his violin were around to keep watch.

The worst dreams were the one of Reeds. Afterwards he wakes up feeling dirty and disgusting and ashamed of himself. He's temporarily afraid of the dark, is jumping at every shadow, and needs a second sweater to hide his body. He hates being touched for hours afterwards. He resorts to some of his usual methods to feeling better. Regardless of what time it was, he'd go to the bathroom, lock the door, strip and take a shower as hot as he could stand it. Then he'd scrub every inch of himself clean. He never truly feels clean on these nights when he has a dream but it helps somewhat. Then he dresses in pants and trousers and covers up with a dressing gown before even considering unlocking the door.

Sometimes John feels poisonous. He's noxious and filthy. It isn't fair to Sherlock that John doesn't tell him but John can't tell him because if he did Sherlock would see how tainted he is, how unworthy of his time, and then he'd leave. He feels poisonous, like he should have a quarantine sign on the outside of his door and that people would be tainted by association. Then again, he's genuinely terrified of being touched by other men so maybe it would be best to have one on the inside of his door to keep them out. Keep other people out for their own good and his protection. And there are days when John wonders if he will ever feel right again but then Sherlock cracks a joke, or smiles at him, or says some sort of inside joke of theirs... And John feels like he is at least right in Sherlocks eyes and he feels warm and safe and privileged to see the parts of Sherlock no one else gets to see.

Donovan and Anderson don't know a thing about Sherlock and part of John pities them that they are too narrow minded to see Sherlock beyond what their prejudice allows them to see. The rest of John doesn't care though because it feels like they deserve it for the way they treat John's best friend. Except John starts to wonder about this. He understands that, on some level, he loves Sherlock but it's purely platonic. Right? Right. _Of course_ it's platonic. He loves Sherlock like one of those crazy brothers you drop everything for, to run across the city and help. He and Sherlock know each other very well by now and John has even steeled himself and told Sherlock a few stories about the war. Not many, but a few.

It's platonic.

Except for when it isn't. Because sometimes he finds himself admiring Sherlock and not just for his brain. It isn't all that alarming and it doesn't have to mean anything. After that first night with Reeds, John hasn't felt even a single second or flash of sexual attraction for another man and that was well over _five_ years ago. So this can't possibly be anything like lust or arousal. Besides, it's Sherlock and John cares a great deal for him. So obviously it _must_ be platonic.

Objectively, Sherlock was attractive. Everyone thought so, or at least they _did_ before Sherlock opened his mouth and said something. John figured it was like admiring certain features he himself lacked. After all, John has always been the shortest bloke and it would be nice to be that height. Those facial features would have certainly gotten John any woman he wanted; the cheekbones, the dimples, and the almond shape of those eyes. Sherlocks eyes. Sherlocks eyes were a nice shade of blue green that were quite vivid. Sherlock always dressed in those suits that made him look like a runway model. _It's just body envy_ , he tells himself. It doesn't mean anything. Their relationship is that of close, platonic friends. Best friends. It's quite nice.

John doesn't remember when it starts... but he remembers when he becomes conscious of it.

He becomes aware of it one Sunday afternoon when Sherlock, sulky from a lack of cases, shuffles into the living room fresh out of the shower and flops onto the couch. **_In nothing but a white sheet_**. He's facing the couch and John can tell he never dried off from the shower because the sheet is slightly see-through in some areas from water. And _dear God_ it's sticking to that body. Tightly. John's eyes flick to that back. He tries to look away but realizes he's staring at Sherlocks arse and he can't quite look away. It's quite a nice arse too. The sheet is mostly see through and he can see the back muscles and those shoulder blades that regularly balance a violin on them. He finds himself admiring the curve of that neck. John doesn't even realize what's happening until he experiences the urge to touch Sherlock.

Then he realizes it.

He's feeling sexual arousal towards another man for the first time in eight years. It's enough to make his blood run cold. Suddenly he realizes he isn't breathing. He can't. He can't take a breath. He has to, but he can't. But he's having a small, quiet panic attack. With Sherlock in the room. It's all too small. He feels trapped and oh god, black spots are getting into his vision. It isn't until he leans forward with his head between his knees, his elbow over his mouth and nose that he manages to gasp in some small amount of air. He keeps doing that, breathing into his elbow slowly, until his heart rate calms down. The dread however, doesn't leave. Neither does the sense of shame that makes him feel like he might throw up here in the living room if he doesn't get into the shower for the second time today and scrub himself clean.

Because now he can feel it. Reeds touching the back of his neck. Reeds on his skin. Those hands around his wrist, holding him down. And now he feels dirty again. His skins crawling. He needs to get up and get out of here. The room feels like it's closing in slightly and suddenly he's frightened beyond belief. He's trembling too. His hands won't hold still. He needs to stand and leave but his legs feel weak and he can't stand despite needing to so very badly. Slowly he starts flexing his legs to get them working again. Tight. Loose. Tight. Loose. It starts working to get the blood flowing faster in his legs right away.

Air. Escape. He needs this to figure it all out. Mostly he just needs to get away from Sherlock. It's not Sherlocks fault and it isn't particularly fair of John to react to him like this. It really isn't fair but John just needs to get out. The park. It's perfect. It's quiet and a safe place to John. Even better, he knows of a low hanging tree next to a set of bushes. No one knew it was there and it was in a solitary part of the park. He could panic quietly without any witnesses. He was panicking somewhat now and it would just not do. Sherlock would catch it and start deducing everything John did. Quickly working his throat to keep his voice even, John locked up his emotions tight and spoke. John was proud of how even his voice was.

"Sherlock, I'm going for a walk. Text me if you need anything."

No response.

Perfect. The last thing he wanted to risk was Sherlock turning around and seeing how frightened he was right then. John grabs his phone and keys, and struggles numbly into his coat before stumbling out the front door. He moves quickly and it's a struggle to not break into a run or loose control and start having a panic attack on the sidewalk right there. He doesn't quite see where he's going until he reaches his destination. The park is rather empty as everything was soggy, cold and it was a Sunday. The bushes are twelve feet high and ring the tree. The tree itself hangs rather low over a park bench people seem to have forgotten. In other words, the perfect place to privately fall apart without being seen by anyone, consulting detectives included.

Once inside his hidden shelter, the first thing John does is vomit. His stomachs been roiling since he realized his sexual attraction and self control can only do so much. He holds onto the tree trunk for life as his bodies stress response makes him reject everything he had to eat earlier. Tea and toast aren't all that appetizing coming back up, as going down. Even when his gut empties, he continues to dry heave for two more minutes until the wave of nausea passes. Then, still slightly unsteady on his feet, John sits down in exhaustion. His skin steel feels like it's crawling in disgust and he only would feel slightly cleaner if he had crawled through a sewer main.

For a minute he manages to remain calm but the emotions he's been holding back starts to trickle through and wash over him. Too much. He falls off the bench onto the ground. He's fortunate he's outside because the world feels like it's being compressed and sucked inwards towards him and god if he had been inside surely he wouldn't be able to breath. His hearts thrumming too fast and there are spots in his eyes again. He hears a keening moan, realizes it's himself and closes his mouth. It isn't safe outside his hiding spot and he tries to keep his voice quiet because he might have a full blown episode if someone came in to check on him. He'd never understood how Sherlock managed to fold himself up so compactly in that armchair, like a contortionist pretending to be origami. Someone that tall shouldn't be able to manage it without bending the laws of reality.

Except now John has managed the same. It isn't comfortable but he's managed to curl up on the ground next to the tree with his arms around his legs and his face pressed into his thighs. It hurts to sit like this. His damaged shoulder shrieks in protest and his back hurts but he has to sit like this. _He just has too_. John would fly apart if he didn't. It isn't logical to believe this and there's no medical basis for a person exploding that doesn't involve some sort of bomb. John believes it anyways. He can't let go. He has to hold himself together. Slowly though, the feelings of fear and anxiety drain away, leaving him feeling shaken but able to uncurl. Slowly, he stands, stumbles, and makes it back to the bench.

His hands are still shaking and he feels shivers running up his back. It's like his entire body is having some petit mal seizure. John leans forward again to put his head between his knees and manages to gasp in air. He resorts to soldier breaths in order to keep breathing. Through the nose slowly. In, in, hold, out. In, in, hold, out. How could this happen? It's been so long since he has felt anything like this for a man. He's feeling it now though and it fills him with anxiety. Oh god! He can't! He can't do this again! Not after Reeds. He's straight now. He loves women. He's never felt sexually threatened when with a woman. Women were wonderful.

How had he not seen this?! All those times he looked at Sherlock for a half second too long. Noticing, and even admiring all those physical features. The way he stood closer to Sherlock than was necessary. Wanting to hold his hand once or twice for no good reason; even if it never happened, he had still wanted too. These were not the things a platonic friend did! John moaned quietly. This had been happening for a while and he hadn't even realized. He was an idiot. Was this why everyone thought they were a couple? Did John have some sort of scarlet letter hanging over him where Sherlock was concerned? Surely he wasn't that obvious about it?

Even worse was that Sherlock had probably noticed these things and hadn't thought anything wrong with it because it wasn't his area. He probably thought it was how normal friends behaved, having not had any before. What the hell was he going to do?! If he distanced himself Sherlock was sure to notice the change and start deducing, but not distancing himself wasn't an option either because he's still shaking at the very idea of being sexually attracted to a man, let alone Sherlock. John pauses and realized he's been pacing for the last few minutes but he doesn't quite remember standing up. He runs a shaky hand through his hair and tries to think his way around this.

Moving out isn't an option either.

Sherlock means too much to him to move out. The idea makes him think of the cold, dank army flats and the depression he suffered before meeting Sherlock. Sherlock who gave him purpose, who laughed with him despite claiming to be a sociopath. Sherlock, who smiled so broadly when he succeeded in curing John's limp, and showed he cared in small, awkward ways that he didn't always get right but made an effort to try anyways. The life he had now was good. If this lust problem didn't exist then it would be very nearly perfect even. If he were to find himself a woman who could tolerate Sherlock being his best friend, or didn't mind that John was just a 'little closed off' and it would be perfection personified.

He couldn't distance himself. Sherlock would investigate, find out about Reeds and leave John in disgust. He couldn't move out, it would hurt their friendship and John liked life the way it was. Then it hits John like a lightning bolt. This must be what it's like when Sherlock realizes something.

Sherlock was asexual!

How could he forget?! John sighs in relief as the tension starts draining away the more he thinks on it. John doesn't have to do anything because Sherlock will never want anything of that nature from anyone! John had never once see him eye anyone with desire except a corpse, and that had nothing to do with necrophilia and everything to do with the Work. Sherlock never seemed to catch on when people flirted with him. Aside from understanding the mechanics of sex, Sherlock seemed to understand it about as well as a potted plant. John isn't even certain that Sherlock has ever had sex! It doesn't look likely to change either.

Warming to the idea, John gets more cheered up as he thinks about it. All he has to do is maintain the status quo by doing what he has already been doing: squabbling with Sherlock when Sherlock does something annoying, spending time with him, doing his routine of showers, helping on cases, going to work, and shopping. He's rationalizing this but it's working. As long as Sherlock wouldn't return any sort of sexual interest then John can continue to feel safe and not lock his door at night. They can be friends and John's sexual interest wouldn't be a problem. It might even go away when ignored. If he isn't nursing these feelings, they will eventually go away. Even better, Sherlock can't be suspicious of changed behavior if there wasn't any. No deductions.

It isn't entirely perfect as small parts of John still feels anxious and slightly nauseous. It's the best solution he can come up with though. He won't feel quite right until he's had his shower and perhaps he will lock his door just for tonight.

John's coat, trousers and hair are a mess from laying in the dirt and grasping his own hair. He makes sure to take his time cleaning himself up, cleaning off his hands, the jacket, straightening his hair. He lived with a human lie detector who could deduce everything you'd done that day based on the state of your clothing. There was no way he was going home with all of this on him. He'd made it this long without Sherlock realizing there was something wrong with him and he intended to keep it that way.

It's just as John is combing his hair with his fingers to return some semblance of order to them that something else occurs to John and he pauses. His stomach tightens in anxiety as he examines the thought and a sort of resigned dread moves through him.

He'd known for a while, in a vague sort of way, that he loved Sherlock but had assumed that it was that of close friends or brothers. Add in the sexual attraction though... _Oh_. _**Oh**_! _Oh_... John turned the though around and examined it and then had to sit down suddenly. Apparently John had been ignoring this for a while but when put in this light, it seemed obvious. He swallows and can't believe his piss poor luck as he finally admits it, if even only to himself.

 _I'm in love with him_...

He didn't just love Sherlock. He was _in_ love with Sherlock.  Not platonic. Not like brothers. Not like friends. Not like 'you're my best mate and I'd help you hide from the police, dye your hair and call you John smith'. Well, to be honest it was like that but also more. The realization makes John think more as he understands why his ability to maintain his relationships with any girlfriend since meeting Sherlock has taken a sharp nose dive. It also brought John back to that prickling anxiety in his chest because his main solution for both problems is to ignore it and continue on. It feels more like avoidance than handling it. The only thing that really solved it for John was that Sherlock was asexual and that John could avoid it forever. He'd find a tolerant woman who could withstand Sherlocks antics, settle down, have some children, and go on a case or two in his off time.

The thing was that John felt safe around Sherlock, but, he reflects with a stab of anxiety, he felt safe around Reeds before that first night. That was his commanding officer, the one person every soldier is supposed to be able to rely on. It felt like Reeds had destroyed him and he had cobbled together some semblance of sanity, of him. If someone else did that to him again, even once, John doesn't think he could do it again. He wouldn't be able to take it. There wouldn't even be enough of him left to pull together to form a wall with, let alone a pile. He's certain Sherlock is safe, that he won't have to be worried.

Thinking it through John begins to calm down. Sherlock was safe to be around. The number of times John had fallen asleep in his armchair after staying up late with Sherlock in the other room is all the reassurance John needs. The ridiculous hiding places where they'd been squeezed in against each other's bodies hadn't alarmed John either at the time and it doesn't worry John now. He was fine, and Sherlock was safe, uninterested in sex, and they were best friends. Thinking all these things works because that last vein of anxiety he'd felt about his 'do nothing' solution dissolves and he feels very relaxed. He won't even need to lock his door tonight, he thinks. A shower will be necessary but that has more to do with him rolling in the dirt, rather than feeling dirty.

John neatens up his hair, then tries to smooth the crinkles out of his trousers and jacket. It's not perfect, he'll have to change if he wants to keep Sherlock off the scent but he looks well enough. John shivers despite his jacket and realizes he's been out for a while. The Suns moved quite a ways and it's gone four in the afternoon. John walks home somewhat tired from his afternoon of revelations. He's never been so glad to see Baker Street in his life and he feels warm climbing those steps upstairs. Sherlock evidently came out of his mind palace while he was out and John knows because he can hear Beethoven's fifth. He paused a moment to admire the sound. Sherlock really was quite good. It eased any remaining tension from his shoulders and he breathed out with a sigh.

This was home, with Sherlock, and violins and tea.

Xxxx

So this is an extension of 'the value of sleep' but if anyone's wondering this really is the last chapter of it. If I continue the storyline it would be from sherlocks perspective In a separate story but this was sort of the ground work chapters.

-HWKFT


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